Breaking and Entering
by Leona Esperanza
Summary: "She let herself into his apartment uninvited, refusing to think of the impropriety, the breaching of social customs – and trust – that she was committing."  Oneshot, inspired by the No Names Challenge.


Title: "Breaking and Entering"  
>Genre: HurtComfort, Friendship  
>Characters: You'll figure it out<br>Rating: FR13  
>Spoilers: End of Season 8, particularly "Pyramid"<br>Prompt: The No Names Challenge on NFA, but this was finished well after the deadline.

* * *

><p>Breaking and Entering<p>

She paused at the door, hand raised, ready to knock. But her courage failed her – _no, not that; it is just that this is more practical – _and she slid her lockpicks from her pocket instead, glancing up and down the hallway before she bent her head to her task. This late at night – or early in the morning, depending on how one looked at it – there was no one around to ask inconvenient questions she wasn't ready to answer.

She'd passed him in the hallway, last week after they'd all come back, and had seen the hint of pain and fear in his eyes. She'd passed him again, in that same hallway, earlier today; and what had been hinted last week practically screamed at her now. He was in trouble, she could tell – who better to know than she? – and his pain called to her, touched her, bleeding heart to bleeding heart. He wasn't sleeping well, she knew; she could easily imagine the nightmares. Easily, because she'd had them too, ever since…

Now she let herself into his apartment uninvited, refusing to think of the impropriety, the breaching of social customs – and trust – that she was committing. If she did, she knew she'd be back on the other side of that door in a heartbeat, running away down the hall, running from him and from her own memories. That was the coward's way, running, and she would not take it, no matter how much it cost her.

She stood her ground, waiting, while her eyes adjusted to the meager light filtering in through the curtains from the streetlights outside. She'd been here before, been invited here before, and she knew the layout, had it perfectly memorized. That was part of her training, to know exactly where she was, where the entrances and exits and hiding places were, just in case. When her vision was as good as it was going to get, she headed for the bedroom door, stealthily, silently. That was part of her training, too.

It was always a point of interest to her to see whether people who lived alone left their bedroom door open or closed when they went to bed at night. There was no one else there, after all, so modesty was not an issue. It spoke more to the character of the person, to their sense of security, their confidence in their own abilities, even their honesty and integrity, in a way. Closed, or open? To trust, or not to trust – in themselves and in their fellow human beings.

His door was almost closed, a gap of only an inch or two showing in the dim light. Well, that only made sense. He was one of the more honest people she knew. He wanted to believe the best of everyone, despite the injustices he saw on a daily basis at work. But while trust had been shattered, security torn away, confidence shaken, the door was not closed all the way. He still wanted to believe, to trust. Fear had closed him off, kept him from opening up to them – but hope still had a foot in the door.

She held her breath as she pushed the door open, slowly, slowly. It opened quietly, without complaint. Once inside, she allowed herself to breathe again as she took in her surroundings. There was the usual bedroom furniture – bed, nightstand, chest of drawers against one wall. The window was closed despite the mild weather, making the room slightly stuffy. Again, she saw it as a sign of his troubled state of mind – unwilling to take the risk of opening up, even here where he should be safe. She nodded to herself; she was familiar with that feeling, as well.

She looked toward, but did not approach, the figure lying on the bed. She didn't want to do anything to alert him to her presence if he had actually managed to fall asleep, and it appeared that he had. From here, though, she could see how tightly he clutched his pillow, how he'd all but wrapped his body around it. Curled tight into a ball, one of the most basic defensive postures; no wonder he'd seemed to move stiffly, this past week.

She chose a spot on the floor up against the wall, where she could keep an eye on him without actually hovering. Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs – another defensive posture, she acknowledged, protecting that which was most vital – and settled in to wait.

It wasn't long – a mere thirty-five minutes – before she heard him shift position on the bed, heard him muttering in his sleep. She held still, waiting – waiting to see if he would settle on his own. That was the reason, surely, for her hesitation; at least, that was what she wanted to believe.

She had to acknowledge her fear, however, when he began whimpering, when his breathing grew louder, faster, panicked. She sat as if rooted to the floor, hugging her knees, eyes wide as she listened. Listened, but did nothing. Coward, she truly was a coward, knowing what she needed to do and too afraid to start down that path.

So she told herself; but when he started coughing – no, _choking_, he was choking in his sleep – she shot to her feet, rushing to his side to grab his shoulders and wrench him from the world of memory and dream. No hesitation, just action.

"It's okay, it's _okay,_" she told him, hoping he could hear her. "You are safe now. It is only a dream."

Hazel eyes flew open, and he gasped, finding himself no longer alone. "What? Who –?"

"It is just me," she reassured him, as if she _hadn't_ broken into his apartment during the night. "Are you alright? You were having a nightmare."

Embarrassed, he wiped at his eyes, wiping away the water that flowed down his face. Much as he must have done a week ago, when they'd picked him up off the wet floor and cut through the duct tape binding his hands behind his back. He'd been dripping wet then – his hair and his clothing soaked from the dousing that bastard had given all his captives – so if he'd been crying then, they wouldn't have known. She suspected he hadn't, then; but afterwards, when no one was looking…

He pushed himself upright, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. "How did you…?"

She smiled grimly. "I picked the lock."

He shook his head. "No, I meant – how did you know? Why are you here?"

She perched carefully on the edge of the bed, body twisted so she could look at him. "I thought you might need someone to talk to," she told him.

"At" – he peered at the alarm clock – "one in the morning?"

"Would you rather I left you to your dreams?"

He shuddered, hunching his shoulders. "No," he whispered, casting his eyes down. He didn't look up at her as he continued, "I'm sorry, I guess I should be thanking you, not…" He shrugged.

She patted his hand, which was clenching the bedsheet tightly. "No, I am sorry," she said slowly. The conversation, short as it was thus far, was already beginning to edge closer to the real reason for her visit. "I should have come sooner. I knew you had not been sleeping well, and – sometimes it helps to have someone who will listen," she finished lamely, not yet ready to reveal herself.

"I've been seeing the agency psychologist," he admitted, as if she didn't know that the counseling was mandatory after an experience such as his.

"Yes, but… sometimes doctors are too… sheltered… to understand." She groped for the right words. "Sometimes it helps to talk to someone… someone who has been there."

His eyes flicked to hers, silently asking the question.

She didn't talk much about her captivity, but she knew the assumptions that the others had made – and, sadly, they weren't far from the truth. That experience was one that she was learning to live with, however – slowly, to be sure, but she was coming to accept it as part of her past. She was still healing, and would be for some time to come, but she was far from being the wounded soul that her partners had hauled out of that filthy desert camp.

She knew that was what he was expecting to hear; but that was not what she had come here to tell. What she _had _come here for… she wasn't ready, not yet. So instead, she considered his unspoken request – and to her surprise, found herself nodding, confirming his suspicions in general, though not going so far as to give him specifics. Perhaps another time – that thought surprised her, too. But she found herself believing what she'd told him about sharing with others of like experience. She just hoped that she would be as successful at persuading him as she had apparently become at persuading herself.

He continued to watch her, but when it became clear to him that she was not going to elaborate, he nodded in return and looked away, into the darkness of the room – the backdrop for the scenes that replayed themselves in his mind.

"I wasn't really paying attention when we were in the elevator," he said, trusting that she was already aware of the circumstances surrounding the beginning of his story. "I didn't think – I thought the agents would have everything under control. And then all hell broke loose. I – I tried, but I'm not – I don't have the kind of training that he did, I couldn't – and then he used me as a hostage to get her to do what he wanted, and then he used her to get me to get the van, and I just felt –" He gestured vaguely with his hands, looking to her to understand.

She could fill in the blank herself – _helpless, hopeless – _but she held her tongue, waiting to see what word he would choose, or if he would choose at all.

"Used," was what he finally said, and while it wasn't quite what she was expecting, she could understand it. "It wasn't about me, I was just a means to an end to him. So was she, I guess. He had his complicated little game, and we were just pieces on the board to him. And I get that – that part of it, I mean. He used us to get everyone to the same place so he could have his big dramatic confrontation. I understand that. But – why the rest of it? With the – the water, and the hoods –" He shuddered then and closed his eyes briefly, wrapped his arms around himself, before remembering that she was watching him and opening his eyes again.

"I thought I'd be okay at first," he said, looking again at the far wall instead of at her. "I mean, I knew it would bother me for a while, that there'd be a few bad dreams and all that, like when I got shot at, that time. But…"

She waited, but he seemed to be lost in his thoughts, or perhaps his memories. Finally she decided to leap start the conversation. "What were you dreaming about?" she asked, though she was pretty sure she could guess.

And she was right. "Water," he told her. "I keep dreaming that I'm drowning, and that my hands are tied and I can't save myself." He spoke with no hesitation, no attempt to hide the truth. "And I get that, too. That makes sense."

She frowned, able to hear that something was missing. "So… what doesn't make sense?" she asked.

He laughed, one short, self-deprecating huff of pained laughter. "I – it makes sense, but it doesn't," he said.

"What?"

He shook his head, and she could see the twisted smile in the way that the shadows played across his face. "I know why I'm afraid of being tied up and drowning in my dreams," he said, "and it makes sense and so I don't really think about it during the day. I know it's just a thing that my subconscious needs to deal with, and the dreams are how it's dealing with it. But what's really dumb…" He shook his head again. "What's really dumb is the fear that's decided to follow me when I'm awake."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "What are you afraid of?"

That pained laugh again. "Promise you won't tell the others?" When she nodded, he ran one hand through his hair, turning his head to look toward the curtained window. "I'm – I'm afraid of the dark," he admitted, with an embarrassed laugh she more felt than heard. "That sounds so dumb, I know – I sound like a little kid –"

"It is not dumb," she told him, looking directly at him, even if he wouldn't look at her. "Our ancestors were afraid of the dark, and with good reason. If you cannot see what is around you, you cannot know if you are safe." An old memory made her smile. "When I was very small, my father told me not to be afraid of the dark, but it didn't help. My mother gave me a small flashlight to sleep with and told me that anytime I was afraid – anytime I thought there might be a monster hiding in the dark – I should turn on my flashlight and find it and tell it to go away. My father told me to be brave, but my mother – _she_ showed me how."

He sighed and rested his forehead on his knees. "I don't feel very brave," he mumbled tiredly.

She glanced around the darkened room, remembered her slow, careful walk through the apartment. "Then why are you sleeping with the lights off?"

"Because I'm not a child," he said, raising his head to look at her, "and I refuse to let him make me feel like one again. Maybe – maybe it bothers me more than it should, but I can handle it." She wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

She considered her words carefully. "I have a secret to confess," she said slowly. _More than one,_ her conscience prompted her, but she pushed that thought away for the time being. "I still sleep with a flashlight near my bed."

His head tilted. "Really?" he asked, sounding somewhat suspicious.

"Oh, yes." A hint of laughter crept into her voice. "It is not the tiny flashlight that my mother gave me, of course. I have learned" – the smile slipped from her lips, just for a moment, as she continued – "I have learned that the monsters in the dark are real, and very powerful." She smiled again, and now the smile was fierce. "So I bought a big heavy Maglight, and when the monsters come, I hit them with it."

She knew he'd seen the results of such attacks – they'd had more than one case where the victim had been struck with a blunt, heavy object, and the outcome was not a pretty sight.

"But you're not still actually afraid of the dark," he said, half question, half statement.

"Oh, I am," she said seriously. "I am afraid of the darkness inside people," she said, "and I am afraid of the darkness outside, which hides them." She looked away, scooting back on the bed so she could draw her own knees to her chest and hug them. "And perhaps even more – I am afraid of the darkness that keeps me from seeing clearly."

There was a moment of silence as he processed what she'd said. Then: "You're not talking about…" he paused, then gestured to the room, "_this_ darkness, are you." Again, he wasn't asking, so much as stating what he perceived as the truth.

"No, I am not."

He leaned forward, arms still around his knees, and looked at her intently. "Tell me."

And now they'd come to it. Best to start slowly, though. "Did you always know what you would grow up to be, when you were young?"

It clearly was not the opening he had expected. A startled look crossed his face, followed by a cautious smile. "Actually, no," he confessed. "I went through a lot of – my mom called them phases, when I was a kid. I wanted to be an astronaut, a rock star, a race car driver…" He shrugged and grinned sheepishly, and they shared a subdued chuckle over the irony of _him_ telling that to _her_, of all people. "But no, I didn't figure out what I wanted until I was already partway through my undergraduate degree. I mean, I sort of knew in general – which was good because I didn't have to change majors – but not for sure until I was a junior."

She was intrigued despite herself, but now was not the time to go off on a tangent. "From my earliest memories as a young girl, I knew what I would grow up to be. It was the family business, I suppose you would say. But just because of who my father is, that did not guarantee my position. I had to earn it, I had to prove that I had what it takes to do whatever is necessary to protect my country."

He might be socially awkward at times, but clearly he knew how to read the subtle cues that told him she was beginning a story, because he kept silent.

"There were hints that a terrorist group was planning a major attack – a bombing – in Tel Aviv on my country's Independence Day. For weeks we tracked these rumors – or tried to – but without much success. Then, just a few days before the holiday, we got lucky. We captured one of their messengers."

She had his full attention; he was still leaning forward, arms loosely circling his knees, a more relaxed position than hers when she had sat on the floor. For now, he listened, trusting that she would soon make the reason for this story evident.

"We knew we did not have much time. In fact, we had even less time than that, because, as it turned out, we did not have one of their lower-ranked – er, groundhogs?"

It took him a moment. "Gophers," he corrected.

"Ah, yes. What we had instead was a man who was very critical to the whole operation – and if he did not show up in a certain place at a certain time, his men were to immediately relocate to a back up site. We hadn't even found their main location yet –we had clues, but that was all – and we had nothing on the alternate site. Absolutely nothing."

She could see from his expression that he was beginning to see where her story was going; but rather than push ahead to the end, he was letting her tell it at her own pace.

"Initially, the interrogation was led by a much more experienced officer, as it should be. But when we discovered who he was, we knew that we needed answers, and quickly, or hundreds of people would die.

"I was outside the interrogation room, awaiting my orders. I was expecting to be told where to go and what to do to capture this man's accomplices. I was not expecting to become part of the interrogation – but that is what happened.

"Observation of our subject before he was captured had revealed much that could be used against him. In particular, there were three stressors that our team had identified." Her troubled brown eyes lifted to his. "He hated Jews. He reviled women. And" – she forced herself not to look away, no matter how much she wanted to – "he feared water."

He swallowed convulsively, his gaze dropping to his knees – no doubt recalling his own ordeal by water. After a moment, his hazel eyes returned to hers. "So what happened?"

She took a deep breath. "We brought in buckets –" she began.

"No, no," he quickly waved his hands, interrupting her. "I can guess what you did in general terms. I don't really need to know the specifics." He didn't need any more details for his subconscious to make use of, she realized. "I mean, what happened after? Did you stop them?"

She nodded. "We did."

"Was – do you think it was worth it? If you could go back, would you make the same choices?"

She closed her eyes and bowed her head as she considered the question. Remembered walking the streets of Tel Aviv a few days later, seeing the buildings still intact, its people going about their business. Children walked hand in hand with their parents, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers – "Yes," she whispered. "If it happened again, if there was no other way – yes, I would do it again." She sighed, laying her forehead on her raised knees. "I know what kind of monster I must sound like, to say that –"

She felt his hand touch her shoulder, very lightly. "You are no monster," he said, and if his touch was hesitant, his voice was anything but. She looked up, and when he saw her watching him, he smiled. "If I had your flashlight, I'd turn it on and show you."

She shook her head. "How can you say that?" she asked. "Especially after what happened?"

"I can say that _because_ of what happened," he said. "That man – _he _was a monster, for what he did and for _why_ he did it. I mean, I know that bad things happened to him in that program, but – but he took it out on innocent people. He killed so many people who never did a thing to him. And he _enjoyed_ it."

"But –"

"Look," he interrupted, "if you came here tonight hoping that I'd agree with you and tell you what an awful person you are, you're going to be disappointed. I'm not going to say that what you did was right, but I also can't say that it was wrong. I wasn't there, I don't know. But I _do_ know you, and I know that you would never do something like that without a _damn_ good reason, and I trust your judgment. I trust you. And besides," he said, looking away and smiling; the tension in the room suddenly lessened, "you're way too pretty to be a monster." He ducked his head, blushing, no doubt, though she couldn't see it in the darkness.

She couldn't help it; she laughed. "That is hardly the best way to judge," she pointed out.

"Maybe not," he said; and she was sure now that if she turned on the light, his face would be bright red. "But it's true. Monsters aren't pretty, and they aren't nice. And if they broke into my apartment in the middle of the night, they wouldn't be here to stop the nightmares. They'd _be_ the nightmares."

She couldn't argue with that; and so she didn't, though she knew it would be a while before she could completely accept what he'd said. Pretty, though – that he thought she was pretty, that she could believe. That he'd been brave enough to say it, though… that peaked her curiosity.

He smiled, about to say something else – then quickly covered his mouth as the smile turned into a yawn. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's okay, it is pretty late," she agreed. "Or perhaps early is the better word. You could probably still get an hour or two of sleep, if you want."

He seemed uncertain – uneasy, perhaps, about the prospect of inviting the nightmares back. "What about you?" he stalled.

She hadn't really planned much past this point – she hadn't really planned _to_ this point, either, at least consciously. But now, she considered his unease at being alone – and her own, as well. "I will do the same," she said tentatively, "if I may borrow your couch?" She smiled, but avoided a direct look. "Perhaps… we could guard each other's dreaming." She didn't know which she disliked more – the weakness of needing to ask for help, or the weakness that would not allow her to ask directly. Yet, she knew if she was honest with herself, it had taken courage to come here tonight, to show her vulnerability to another. Perhaps she could build on that.

A few minutes later, lying on the couch in the living room, she regarded the open door to the bedroom. Perhaps they both could start here and pull themselves – and each other – back to solid ground. The first steps had been taken.

Turning on her side, she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep, her fingers wrapped loosely around her penlight.


End file.
